The Week My Husband Died

Today marks 16 years since Art died. 

When he died, the world didn't stop. I didn't expect it to, but I wished it, I begged it to, for a moment, so that I could pretend that I could maybe catch my breath.

But people went to work. 

Kids had soccer practices. 

Emails still arrived.

You know those clips in movies where the character stands still and everyone around him moves super fast?  It almost felt like that. 

Almost.

I knew I wasn't the only one who felt like they were standing still. 

A few days before, Art's boss came to say good-bye.

I wasn't there. 

Art was unconscious. 

His boss said his good-byes to an employee he liked working with, respected and trusted a great deal. 

I never asked what he said. It didn't matter.

The most important thing was that he showed up.

So did a lot of people. In those wretched and most beautiful days before Art died, I realized I wasn't the only one mourning him.

It was a small act — just showing up — but powerful.  Those days before he died changed how I talk about grief and support today.

We often underestimate the impact of simply being there. I don't. Not anymore.

I hope after reading this, you won't either. 

To Tom Gilder, thank you will never be enough. You mattered and still do. 

And so do you, dear reader.